A Glimpse to the Future
by PHXYote
Summary: Colour Serjeant John Bates needs to escape the downward spiral of his postwar Army life. He turns to his former commanding officer for a job at his York estate. During a visit there, he encounters a certain teenage housemaid and is forced to face some basic truths about himself. First time publishing here, reviews welcome. Really! Chapter 13 up 9/1/13.
1. Chapter 1

**A Glimpse to the Future**

Chapter One

He always seemed awaken most violently in the predawn, just as the sky began to show the palest hint of light. Another day was struggling to start, and Colour Serjeant John Bates jostled himself awake from another hazy, drink-sodden sleep and wondered where he was.

It took a few moments before he remembered that he was in the new Shrapnel Barracks, in a room adjacent to the recruits' quarters, where he often passed out on those nights he couldn't bear to be at home, near his wife, or near any number of women passing through Woolwich who pursued him. These were women who saw the chevrons and crown on his uniform and assumed they'd found a man with cash to spend on them. Even when they ended up paying for a round or four of drinks, they still pursued him, attracted by his dark looks and low voice they mistook for passion. He had none of that, not for months, maybe years now but he was willing to play the role if only to remind himself that he wasn't dead—yet.

What had he been dreaming? He wasn't sure and didn't want to search his memory. Right now, he had to concentrate on relieving his aching head and leg and prepare for yet another command performance of a responsible Colour Serjeant. Today's performance was an important one and he had to look and feel the part.

That was about the last thing that could rouse him to try to meet the high standards of behaviour that he'd held himself to before the war and in its early days. Or more accurately, before he was wounded and left in pain that could get so unbearable he wished he was dead. And when he wasn't so distracted by the pain, he was achingly aware of his lopsided gait that kept him tied to the Army and the boring desk job that didn't require the physical labor he had been used to. His job was given out of pity and he hated himself for accepting it. But he knew that outside the Army, no one would hire him, a crippled man approaching middle age with a drink problem to boot.

The prospect of seeing his old commander, Viscount Crawley, made him want to be a man again. Maybe the Viscount could conjure up a job for him at his York estate, away from London, away from his wife whose eyes revealed her disappointment and whose tongue her scorn, and the younger soldiers who pitied him and didn't think the next war to come along could possibly ruin their bodies and souls as his had been. Maybe his old commander wouldn't pity him but remember the man he'd been when he served as his batman and bodyguard. When he took a Boer bullet meant for the officer.

* * *

Bates hoped the early dawn would spare him from being seen. He knew he looked like a wreck after last night. He tried to pull himself together, washing his face and matting down his hair, rinsing his mouth and trying to smooth the uniform he'd slept in. He didn't have a razor with him and knew he needed a shave. He reached inside a pocket, pulled out a small flask and took a sip.

He lumbered outside and after standing for a few moments in the growing light, felt like he could walk almost normally. Another sip of whiskey soothed the pain in his leg and head and he started to feel what passed for normal these days. He nodded at the guards as he limped through a back entrance and out of the barracks. "Poor old fellow," he heard one of them say.

He was heading for home in Abbey Wood, for a bath and change of clothes, maybe a bit of breakfast if Vera was in a good mood. She should be, he thought to himself. He'd stayed out of her way for several days, sparing her the sight of a husband she still relied on for money and an occasional physical release that only drove them further apart.

He arrived at a three-story building and climbed the stairs to the top floor rooms they shared. He was in luck. Vera wasn't home—she must have stayed out for the night, bedding down with a new friend or old one, who knew. Sighing with relief, he started the kitchen fireplace and went back down the stairs to fill a few buckets with water from the tap outside the house. He'd built a pulley outside that would hoist the buckets up to the kitchen window, sparing them and the second-floor tenants from having to lug water up to their flats. He had been quite proud of that, thinking it a clever and handy convenience—only to overhear Vera tell the landlady that her husband could barely make it up the stairs and would slosh water all over the place. Was it all right for them to use the contraption he'd put together?

He climbed back up the stairs, hoisted the buckets through the window, and set them to heat over the fire. While the water warmed, he made himself a light breakfast of cake and apples that Vera had left behind. He found an open bottle of beer in the sink and finished it, tossing the bottle back into the sink. The water now heated, he poured it into the metal tub he dragged out from the bedroom, gathered some soap, a razor and flannel, stripped off his clothes, and lowered himself in. He quickly but thoroughly washed himself—he didn't want to chance Vera walking in on him in such a vulnerable state. He dried himself off, wrapped the flannel around his waist, and filled a small bowl with water so he could shave in the bedroom, taking advantage of Vera's small but pretty mirrored dressing table.

He sat at Vera's table, looking at himself in the mirror. He lathered his face with soap and slowly, carefully, scraped the razor against his face, rinsed it, and moved on to the rest of his face. He was so pale, he thought. Must try to get out in the sun more often. Finished with shaving, he picked up one of Vera's brushes and ran it over his scalp. He was glad he'd let his hair grow in a bit. He wasn't anywhere near violating Army standards, but that extra layer of hair was enough to cover the scar on the back of his head where he'd fallen and hit a rock after some bloke shoved him during an argument outside a pub they'd been thrown out of. He somehow scrambled to his feet and returned the favour, tackling the man and swinging his fists into his sides until a couple of corporals who recognized him dragged him off and back to the barracks.

He stood and opened the wardrobe, searching for his dress uniform or at least a clean standard issue. Luck struck a second time—his dress uniform hung in the very far corner, over his best shoes. They were both clean, almost a miracle. He couldn't remember when he last wore them—perhaps during last year's inspection by the Prince of Wales? He slipped on clean undergarments and pulled on the uniform pants, pleased that it buttoned easily. He tried on the coat, which still fit him pretty well. He could look the part; the question was, could he still play it for his old commander?

* * *

Bates stood in the foyer of the Retired Officer's Club in Mayfair awaiting Viscount Crawley. It had been about three years since he'd last seen Crawley, who came to London for the social season and for business at other times. Crawley had written to him several times, asking if they could meet. But Bates always had excuses to avoid such a meeting, ashamed at how he'd failed to progress up the ranks after the war and his stupid job filing endless documents. He hated how such a job was his lifeline.

It was time to change all this. This time he was going to ask Crawley for a job at Downton Abbey, the family estate. He'd never been there but had heard from others that it was a grand house, one of the best in York, and had a reputation for being a good place to work. The house itself, Crawley had told him, had been one of the largest monasteries in York until the Reformation, when Henry VIII sent his army to ransack properties claimed by the Roman Church. The grandfather of the first Earl was rewarded with the property in return for his zealous search and ransacking of Roman treasures, bringing several hundreds of thousands of pounds to Henry's diminished treasury. His grandson, equally zealous in embracing the reformed religion, was made Earl by Queen Elizabeth after financing the better part of Sir Walter Raleigh's expeditions to the New World. And so the title was handed down from father to son for the next several hundred years. If memory was correct, though, Crawley only had daughters and one widowed sister without children; Bates supposed the next heir would be a cousin.

Bates heard his name shouted from across the expansive room off the foyer and turned to see the Viscount bounding toward him. He, too, was in dress uniform. Bates felt his face break into a grin as soon as he saw him; the man was irresistibly charming and completely at ease with himself. "Serjeant Bates my dear fellow!" he exclaimed, grabbing Bates' arm and pumping it up and down before wrapping him in a bear hug. Bates felt his grin get even wider. "Sir, it's a real pleasure to see you again," he replied after breaking away from the hug and gave him the first real smile he'd felt in weeks.

"Come let's sit for a few minutes before luncheon," the Viscount said, leading Bates by the arm to a corner in the room where armchairs were arranged in front of a fire. "Take a seat," he said, motioning to the chair closest to the fire and sitting in the one to the left. Bates, thrown off by being led and trying to keep his balance, was careful to wait until the Viscount was seated. Only then did he sit, grateful that his aching leg would be closest to the fire. He worried if the Viscount had noticed his pained stance. Crawley looked at him, smiling, but asked in a serious voice, "Tell me what's gone on with you."

* * *

"I was worried that things weren't going well," the Viscount said. "I suspected that you and your wife weren't getting along. It can be difficult for outsiders, especially women, to understand what we've been through in Africa, and with an injury like yours…I can only imagine how hard it's been on you."

Bates had brought the Viscount up to date on his situation, leaving out the details of his drinking and the extent of his physical pain, but being frank about the state of his marriage and his frustration with his job. "So I was hoping, sir, if a position were to open at Downton Abbey, if you'd consider giving me a trial," he ventured. "I'm not as crippled as I look. I manage getting around very well. I've served as a batman to visiting officers at Shrapnel so I still have valet skills, and you know I can keep spending accounts and inventory. I can do most anything to help run a house."

The Viscount listened carefully. Bates had been an exceptional and decorated soldier, but he couldn't help thinking about all the stairs in Downton. How in the world would Bates manage them? It was a huge house and the stairs seemed endless to some visitors. There were even more of them in the areas where the servants worked and slept. Wilson, his valet, sometimes joked that people couldn't possibly get fat working at Downton, even with the excellent cooks there. His own parents were starting to get weary with the stairs and seemed to take longer to ascend them with each passing week. Could a man with a permanent injury possibly handle such a house?

It was a pity, he thought, because a healthy Bates could have done just about anything at an estate like his. The man had been an excellent shot—what a pleasure it would have been if he could work hunting parties but his obvious unsteadiness would be a problem. And forget putting him on a horse. He wondered for a moment if Bates' fondness for whiskey was partly to blame for the unsteadiness he'd noticed when he led him in from the foyer. He knew that Bates drank quite a bit during the war but he couldn't honestly say he'd ever seen him drunk.

Back then, even his thrice-daily shots of whiskey didn't seem to impact Bates a bit. He had in fact just seen him take a slug from a canister when the shots rang out that day. Bates reacted quickly. He pushed Captain Crawley to the ground, where two other soldiers jumped in to cover him. Crawley turned his head to see Bates reached over his shoulder, whip out his rifle, aim in one direction and fire twice. Crawley heard a scream and saw a man fall out of a tree about 30 meters away. Bates spun around, aimed in another direction, and fired again. This time, they could hear the thud as another body hit the ground.

By then, the rest of the battalion had caught up and were forming a circle around them, rifles raised and firing in the directions where Bates had fired. Bates reloaded his rifle and rose to join the circle just as a round of bullets whizzed into the men in front of him. The next thing Crawley knew, Serjeant Bates was screaming and clutching his leg before passing out on the men who had fallen moments earlier. It was awful, and it was hours until the shooting stopped and the medical corps could come in to collect the bodies and move the survivors to a field hospital.

"Poor bastard," Crawley remembered hearing one medic say over Bates' inert body. "That leg's coming off if he lives to make it back. Mind the blood, it's slippery, don't fall getting' him on the stretcher." He felt sick.

* * *

"Sir?" Bates was saying. Crawley looked up. "Sorry Bates," Crawley said. "I was just thinking about the layout of the house. It's quite a big place and...well, it has several floors and a lot, and I mean _a lot_, of stairs. I just don't know how you could manage working there. And I do have a valet who I imagine would stay on once I inherit my title…in fact, I don't foresee anyone really leaving except for footmen...that would be beneath you..." His voice trailed off as he caught Bates' eye and saw the disappointment in the man's face.

"Enough of this for now," Crawley said. "Let's go in. I'm hungry and I'm told that the NCO luncheons have the _best_ food."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

He always liked traveling by train. As a child, his parents often took him and his younger brothers to the sea for a day or two, and they always traveled by train. It seemed magical to him how over the course of a half-day, they could be transported from their gritty working-class neighborhood through lush green countryside that gradually transformed into sandier turf as they neared the Kent seaside.

Their parents were as excited as the boys. Each time they traveled, their mother packed a picnic lunch with their favourite treats to eat on the train on the way out, making the little third-class compartment the five of them packed into like a party on wheels. They played cards, listened to their father's stories about working on the railroads as a youth, and looked out the window.

Returning home, their father, insisting that the holiday wasn't over until they were actually home, treated them to sandwiches and sweets sold from the tea carts that rolled through each car.

Traveling to York was another matter. Unlike Dover, it was hours away, taking most of the day to reach. And he wasn't traveling with his family but with strangers who tried mightily to avoid eye contact, much less conversation. Still, it was in a train, he had his books and a full flask of whiskey, and unless more people came in the compartment, he could keep his leg comfortably stretched out.

The tea cart rolled up. He ordered a pot of tea and peppermints, his new companion. Vera had complained that he was starting to smell like whiskey. Normally he would shrug off her complaints but this time, he took them to heart. He'd noticed that some of the drunks in the pubs did in fact smell like alcohol—usually the cheaper stuff like beer—but he wasn't about to take any chances. So he started using shaving soap infused with mint and buying peppermints to refresh his breath.

It had been enough for even Vera to notice and the lady he'd met up with a couple of nights ago actually commented on how nice he smelled. "Not like these other wankers," she'd joked, jerking her head toward the usual group that crowded the far end of the bar.

He smiled at the memory. He'd actually enjoyed this lady and wouldn't mind seeing her again. She had him laughing all the way to her bed. Afterward, he started to light up a cigarette and she ordered him outside on her balcony. "No smoking in the holy of holies," she said. "I'm the only thing allowed to burn in here." Still, she was sweet. When he returned from his smoke, she was in her tiny kitchen preparing a breakfast tray for them to share, back in her bed.

Of course, if he did get a job in York, it was unlikely he'd see her again. He couldn't remember exactly where she lived—he was certain of the street but not the house—and she wasn't a regular at his usual haunt. And a job with Crawley would also mean adjusting his lifestyle. He'd have to cut back on drinking during the day, of course, and avoid getting entangled with women. These houses, he knew, could be quite strict about the conduct of their servants.

He sipped his tea and glanced out the window. Yes, he'd have to be very, very careful.

* * *

Six hours later, he disembarked at the Downton station, the sky already growing dark. He'd lost nearly an entire day in the train but to his surprise, he hadn't felt the need for more than a sip or two from his flask. Now, however, he was hungry and restless. Crawley had recommended a pub with rooms over it for him to stay the night, just a few blocks from the station. He'd be picked up late morning to join the family for luncheon and to see the house.

Right now, though, he needed food and some kind of outlet for his pent-up nerves. The pub could feed him and do more. Tonight, however, he was going to start behaving properly. Just eat, he told himself. No drink. Don't talk to any women. Act like you're a normal enough chap in for a quick visit.

The pub was nice enough with decent food. He ate alone, relieved to see that the people around him looked and behaved respectably. They didn't seem the types to drink too much or get too friendly with strangers. The less temptation, the better off he'd be.

His dinner finished, he signaled the staff for the bill. The owner came over to him. "As they say, Mr. Bates, your money is no good here," he told him, smiling. "Viscount Crawley will be taking care of all your needs here." Bates thanked him, which apparently meant permission for the man to sit down to start interrogating him about his connection to Viscount Crawley. They served together in the African war, Bates explained. "I was his batman."

The owner raised his eye, looking a little confused. This man was clearly disabled, he thought, he can't be in the Army. Then he he put it together. "Are you the batman who saved him?" he asked. Bates nodded. The man looked at him, awestruck. "You just let me know what we can do to make sure you're comfortable here," he told him. "To start, I'll make sure a hot bath is drawn for you tonight. It's a long journey from London and I'm sure you'd like to wash the train off you."

"Thank you," Bates replied. "But I really need some exercise first. Give me an hour to just walk around." The owner laughed. "You'll see the entire village six times over, but point taken. I'll have a hot bath ready for you in an hour." He paused. "Begging pardon, sir, but what you did…protecting the Viscount…this sort of thing means a lot to us here. The Crawleys are the reason there's a Downton. They're good people."

Bates mumbled something back, something about that his job meant he guarded Captain Crawley. The pub owner nodded. "I'll be quiet that you're here," he said. He paused again. "If there's anything you need, just ask." Bates thanked him. "Anything," the man repeated. "If you get lonely…anything." Bates almost laughed out loud. Was the man crazy? Did he really think that a visitor to the Crawley family was going to carouse like a drunken soldier? "There's no need for that," he answered. "I am a married man."

* * *

The pub owner was right. Ten minutes covered the entire village of Downton. Still, it was nice to walk after a day cramped on a train. He walked slowly, just enough to keep his leg comfortably stretched. After the third time around, he returned to the pub and his room.

The room was surprisingly comfortable. The bed was large and firm. He peeked into the bath down the hall and saw the tub was large enough that he could actually stretch out in it. Water was being heated in a sitting room opposite the bath. He returned to his room to do push-ups, a habit he was actively trying to get back to, to help get himself back in shape. He managed fifty. Enough. A hot bath was surely ready for him down the hall.

He was handed a message the following morning as he made his way downstairs for breakfast:

"Greetings Bates! Welcome to Downton!

Hope your journey and the room were satisfactory. Luncheon will be at 1, just us and the family. I'll have a car sent round at 11. We can talk and you can check on my library. Later I'll show you round.

_Crawley_"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

He stepped outside the pub just before 11. It was cloudy out, typical English weather, with a hint of rain to come.

Since his visit wasn't related to Army business, he wore a suit and not a uniform. He wanted to present himself as a civilian ready to work in a private setting. He had briefly worried that Viscount Crawley would be in uniform but quickly dismissed the idea; officers knew better than to wear uniforms for non-military business. Downton Abbey, after all, was a grand house and not a barracks.

He heard the sound of an engine and his heartbeat picked up a bit when he saw it turn the corner: an Adams, the new one with 10 horsepower and pedals to push transmission. He'd read about them but hadn't seen an Adams, not even in London. It was a most unusual car and one he wasn't surprised that Crawley had bought one. He waved the driver over.

"Mr. Bates?" the driver asked. Bates nodded and slowly walked around the front of the car. "Beautiful," he enthused to himself. The driver opened his door and strode around the back of the car to open the passenger door. Bates was momentarily embarrassed by the gesture, then remembered that the man was just doing his job.

"If you don't mind," he said, "I'd rather sit in the front. I've never actually seen an Adams and I'd like to see how that gear change works." The driver smiled. "Happy to have the company," he said, closing the back door and opening the front. He'd noticed Bates' limp right away; Crawley had mentioned that the man had been wounded in the African war, and rumor had it that he'd actually taken a bullet meant for him. "Just watch your step," he murmured to his passenger.

They chatted easily enough on the short drive to the manor. Bates watched how the driver handled the pedals and marveled at the smooth ride. He'd only ridden in a few cars at all and they had been taxis; this was his first ride in a private car. He felt almost like an earl himself.

They pulled up to a circular driveway and stopped in front of a grand doorway. A butler—_a butler!_—stood outside and walked over purposefully to open Bates' door. "Welcome to Downton Abbey," he announced. Bates swung a leg out of the car and was about to thank the man when his other leg, the bad one, slid and hit the ground a little too hard. Pain shot up and down his side and he squeezed his eyes closed. "Mr. Bates!" the butler exclaimed. "Are you all right?"

Bates sat back in the car, doubled over in pain. "I'm fine, I'm fine…just give me a moment…" The driver, who clearly liked him, came around the car offer his support. "That side runner," he said quietly. "I keep telling the Viscount that it's gonna kill someone, the way it's tilted down." Bates, now recovering, looked up at him gratefully. The butler, who was actually a footman, let out a huge sigh of relief. He'd been momentarily terrified. Mr. Carson would have his head if he'd been here to see this. Thank goodness he was off on his holiday and no other staff were around to see the visitor nearly pitch forward into the gravel. "Come with me, sir," he told Bates. "Let's get you to the library and I'll fetch the Viscount."

Bates turned to face the driver, thanked him for the ride and demonstration, and stuck out his hand. The driver smiled his welcome and shook his hand quickly. "I'll be round to take you back later," he said.

* * *

Bates followed the footman into the house. Once inside, he all but gaped. High ceilings overhead; huge, larger-than-life portraits and paintings adorned the walls; rich carpets covered marble floors; a mahogany staircase loomed over to the side. He had heard about such homes, read about them, but had never seen such magnificence. It was all he could do to not crane his neck like a holidaymaker. It was like a miniature version of the British Museum, he thought to himself.

The footman, having heard Bates' rather loud footsteps stop abruptly, turned to see him take in the house. He couldn't help smiling, remembering his own first impression of the upstairs. "Sir?" he said gently. Bates, who had been gazing at a tapestry depicting King John signing the Magna Carta, started for a moment, nodded silently, and limped to catch up to him.

Thankfully, they didn't have far to walk. His leg was starting to hurt again. The footman rounded a corner and led him into the most beautiful room he'd ever seen—Downton Abbey's library.

Dozens of high oak bookcases lined the room, which was itself as luxurious as the rest of the house. The footman motioned him to a leather armchair and he slowly sat down, his eyes catching a pile of Wordsworth's poetry on the side table next to him. The footman cleared his throat. "I'll let Viscount Crawley know you are here," he said. He turned to leave, only to see another footman beckon from the door. The two conferred for a moment, and the first footman returned to Bates' side. "The Viscount is, um, I'm told he is detained for a few minutes," he stammered.

_Probably with a maid_, Bates thought to himself. _Maybe even his wife._

"No worries," he said with a smile. "A library is about the best place for me to wait." The footman bowed his head slightly. "Very well, sir. Please, make yourself comfortable. I'm sure the Viscount won't be long."

Alone in this most amazing room, Bates pushed himself up from the armchair and walked over to examine some maps and the largest globe he'd ever seen. He noticed a small bar to the side with decanters and glasses. He walked over to it, opened a decanter, and sniffed. Rye. He poured himself a double-shot and drained it. Then he poured another double shot to sip.

He returned to the maps and gradually moved down to examine several shelves filled with volumes of Greek and Roman history. He'd seated himself with a beautifully illustrated study of early Christian art when he heard someone enter.

* * *

She didn't even notice him, down in the far end of the room. "Blast it!" she exclaimed, looking towards the other end. "Emilie said she'd _finished_ in here!" A child dressed in a maid's uniform, or so she looked. She hurried to the end of the room and gathered newspapers, magazines, and books strewn across the floor and left on various chairs and carried them to a table to assemble and put away in their proper places.

Bates was momentarily amused. Then he wondered. How old was this girl? He really had had very little contact with children but he was certain she couldn't be much older than twelve or thirteen years. Did the Crawleys really employ _children_ to work in their home? He was no Dickens enthusiast but if this was the case, it was quite disturbing. Could he even consider working in such a place?

Meanwhile, the child-maid was fussing about Emilie's shortcomings, throwing in a few comments about the family's reading habits. "How can anyone tear apart a newspaper so?" she wondered aloud. "Don't they share it? How rude. And who in the world can read this—is it _Greek_? And what's this—oh history, that's down the other side of the world." She gathered several volumes in her arms and turned in his direction.

She didn't see him at first; he sat in one of the armchairs, blocked from her view by a large lamp. It wasn't until she rounded one of the tables that she saw the man in the dark suit and startled—she hadn't realized anyone was in the room. He glanced in her direction. "Oh! I'm sorry—I didn't know the library was being used! I'll come back later," she rushed out in a thick Yorkshire accent and turned away, embarrassed. Had he heard her talking to herself?

"No need," he said quickly. "I've been told to wait here. Viscount Crawley won't be here for a bit, I think. Those books look heavy." He pushed himself up from his chair with his arms and limped over to her. "Here, give me a few."

The girl held out her armload and he removed most of the books from her pile. She was petite but clearly not as young as he'd initially thought. Her skin was smooth and her blonde hair was wrapped in a neat bun under a hair ruffle. Blue eyes glanced up at him just a little shyly. He gave her a quick smile and she seemed to relax a bit. "Thank you, sir," she said, her voice slightly shaking. "I'm ever so sorry to disturb you."

"I'm not disturbed at all, Miss….ah, Miss," he replied. "Anna" she answered. "Just Anna." She returned his smile and continued. "Our butler is on holiday and the head housekeeper's away on a family emergency, so all the schedules are a bit mixed up. Normally we'd know if there are visitors in the house and I wouldn't have barged in here complaining about newspapers."

He laughed out loud and lumbered over to the bookcases where he'd found the history section. She couldn't help notice his limp and wondered if he was one of the Viscount's many friends from the war. He wore a suit, but not a particularly fancy one; he probably wasn't an officer. He seemed nice, and not all visitors to Downton Abbey were particularly nice to the staff.

She followed him, stopped next to him, and looked up the bookcases. It seemed that she found only those books that were shelved about six feet up, way over her head. She sighed. "Well, it's good that one of us is tall enough to reach there. It isn't me," she added, prompting another chuckle from him. Jolly fellow, she thought to herself.

"Are you here to see his lordship, or Viscount Crawley, Mr., um…sir?" she asked. "Bates. John Bates," he answered. "Viscount Crawley invited me to come and meet his family. We served together in Africa. He was my company commander. I saw him in London last month at an NCO luncheon and he said to come for a day in the country—that's how he put it."

"NCO?"

"Non-commissioned officer. The Officer's Club hosted a luncheon for NCOs and he invited me to it." He was moving around her, putting away books here and there, stretching once or twice to reach a top shelf. "Here, you can put those away down there," he said, handing two books to her. "It's a bit hard for me to stoop down. Let me see the rest you have." He removed the remaining books from her arms.

Anna knelt down and returned the two books to the lower shelves. She stole a look up at him. He was certainly tall, six feet or more, she guessed. He had a nice build, not fat but not at all thin, with long legs and sturdy shoulders. He kept his hair shorter than most men, almost in a military style. She stood up and caught a pleasant whiff of mint come off him.

He stepped back. "Finished. Now you can go and tell poor Emilie what you think of her library skills." She smiled up at him. "I can hardly do that now. At least Emilie didn't look for guests to help with her work."

He grinned at her. "Can I ask you something?"

"I suppose so."

"How _old_ are you?"

She looked down, hiding her smile. "I get that a lot. I'm sure that one day Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes will get a visit from the Dickens Society." She looked up at him. "Actually, I'm nearly sixteen. I've been here for almost a year." _And how old are you?_ she almost asked aloud.

"I see," he said. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help wondering."

"It's fine," she told him. "But can I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead." What in the world would she ask him?

"Are you in the Army?"

Oh. Was it his hair? "Yes."

"Why aren't you wearing a uniform?"

"I'm not here on Army business. I'm just visiting. I'm on leave."

Anna paused. "I know I said _a_ question and not several. But I do have one more."

He raised his eyebrows. She was so darn cute!

"Were you the one who saved Viscount Crawley? Who pushed him out of the way and got shot instead of him?"

The limp. "Yes." They were now looking at one another intently. _She's bold_, he thought. _She isn't going to look away._ He wondered if Crawley had thought about her.

"I'm sorry about your injury."

He nodded. "Thank you." Civilians rarely acknowledged his handicap. They either looked away or overdid it, treating him like a fragile old man.

She looked like she would speak again. Then they heard voices outside in the hallway.

She stepped away from him. "Thank you for helping me, Mr. Bates. I hope you enjoy your day here." She turned and hurried to the door, exiting just as Viscount Grantham appeared. "Sir," she said. "Your visitor Mr. Bates is here."

"BATES, my good man!" she heard Crawley exclaim as she headed down the hall.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Anna hurried down the hallway, the Viscount's voice fading behind her.

Turning the corner at the salon, she nearly collided with Miss O'Brien, Lady Crawley's new lady's maid. "What's happening?" O'Brien practically shrieked. "Is there a fire?"

Anna collected herself. "No, Miss O'Brien, there's no fire, at least none that I started," she answered before taking off again. She had to find Emilie and Beryl, the assistant cook, her closest friends at Downton Abbey. She practically flew down the stairs to the servants' hall and kitchen below.

"Beryl!" she shouted as she burst into the kitchen. The cook jumped. "Sssshhhh!" she hissed. "I'm baking a cake. You'll gonna ruin it with all that yelling!"

Anna skidded to a stop. "Sorry," she giggled. "But I have to tell you something. It's about Lord Crawley's visitor."

"Outside," Beryl ordered in a whisper, pushing her toward the door that led to the kitchen courtyard. "What of 'im? And is he worth ruining his lordship's favorite cake?"

"Oh Beryl, you won't believe it. I was supposed to clean up the library but Miss O'Brien called me to help the nanny with the girls. Emilie offered to do the library for me. While I was dressing the baby, the nanny said she'd take Lady Mary and Edith to the library."

Beryl cut her off. "What does this have to do with a visitor? And who's visiting anyway?"

"Let me finish! After I finished cleaning and dressing the baby, I gave her back to Lady Crawley and went to find Emilie. She told me she finished cleaning the library. I told her that Nanny was taking the girls down there and that they always make a mess in there. Nanny and Mary read the paper and take it all apart so no one else can read it and Edith uses books like building blocks. But she said, no, everything was fine when she left but I didn't believe her and since I'm supposed to tidy the library I went down there—"

"And what, you found a stranger in there cleaning it up?"

Anna laughed. "No, but he offered to help!"

"Who offered to help?"

"Lord Crawley's visitor!"

"What visitor? No one told me there's a visitor? Are we having a bunch of guests here I didn't know about? Am I going to have to make the portions smaller? I didn't order extra food for guests!"

"No, just one more than usual. But he's big, I warn you, he probably will eat a lot."

Beryl was silent for a moment, then burst out laughing. "Oh Anna! So who is he?"

"Well, first, let me tell you, I didn't even _notice_ him. I ran into the room, went straight to the desks and found a right mess, just like I expected. So I'm complaining _out loud_ to meself about how Emilie said she'd finished when she hadn't, how can people tear up the papers so, and then I found all these books Edith must've been playing with so I scooped 'em up and started taking them to the other end of the room to put 'em back—and there he is, sitting in a chair with a book and looking at me like I'm some crazy person carrying on to no one at all!"

They both laughed, words shaking out their mouths.

" 'E probably thought you was complainin' about 'im!"

"He probably thought I was insane!"

"Mebbe 'e thought you was talkin' to the library ghost!"

"Maybe he _saw_ the library ghost!"

They were now clutching each other, wiping away tears and gasping for breath. "So it gets better," Anna choked out, "because, I have to say, he's rather nice-looking. Black Irish like. And I'm thinking, Oh, Emilie will be _so_ cross to have missed him!"

Beryl exploded with another shout of laughter, Anna joining in.

She paused to take a breath. Beryl had calmed down to giggling. "So I'm just standing there and saying something stupid like, Oh I didn't see you, I'll come back later, and he says not to worry and just comes over and starts taking the books from me because he can see they're heavy and next thing I know, he's reshelving them!"

"Oh, my," Beryl wheezed. "And you're just standin' there watching 'im do yer work?"

"Well, _yes_, what was I supposed to do? He's all over the place like he's knows where everything should go. But the thing is, he's got a bad leg from the war, so he gave me the books for the lower shelves. He said it's hard for him to kneel down."

"How do you know his leg was hurt in the war?"

"Well, I started talking to him, asking him questions."

"You-did-_not_!"

"Well, he started it first. He asked me how old I am."

"Really? That's rather forward!"

"No, not that way. I think he thought I was about 10 or something so I made a joke about the Dickens people coming to interrogate Mr. Carson. And then we just started talking but you know me, I wanted to find out who he is."

"And-?"

"Well, to start off: his name is John Bates, and he's the one who was the Viscount's batman in Africa, the one who took a bullet for him."

"Really!"

"Yes, and that's why he has a bad leg. He can't walk right. But he's still in the Army. He's an uncommissioned officer or something like that."

"You could tell by his uniform you know."

"Yes, _I know, _Beryl, but he's not wearing a uniform. He said he's not on Army business so he's in a regular suit."

"Oh, well pardon me missy let's-put-the-guests-to-work."

They both laughed.

"So it seems that young Lord Crawley invited him to 'the country' for a day, to meet his family."

"Well I should think so! He saved his life. I'm surprised we haven't seen him before now."

"I told him I was sorry about his injury. Oh, and he smells really nice, like peppermint or something like that."

"Just how close did you get to him, Anna?"

* * *

Viscount Crawley and Bates were comfortably seated in the library, Bates listening as his host explained the background of the historic property.

It was obvious that Crawley considered Downton as much a part of his life as any member of his family. He described the layout of the farms and the village surrounding the estate, the staff, its income, and far more details than Bates ever expected to hear as a mere luncheon guest. He dared to wonder if a job offer was coming.

"Enough about Downton," the Viscount finally concluded. They had spoken of nothing else for close to an hour. "What are we going to do about you, Bates?"

Bates looked straight into Crawley's eyes. "You know my situation, sir," he said. "I'm very, very anxious to get out of the Army and away from London."

Crawley nodded. "I understand," he said, "but to be honest, I don't know what I can offer you here."

"Well, sir, as you know, I can keep accounts and books. I can do valet work. I can even help with maintaining the property, whether it's carpentry or brick laying…I am willing to do just about anything."

"We have people who do these things for us," Crawley said gently. "Downton has employed people from the same families for generations. And sadly, my father still controls the business side. It's all his people there."

Bates looked away, tears stinging at his eyes.

"Bates, please understand, I would like _nothing more_ than to employ you here. But I don't know how, or where. I have a valet. I have a driver. I can't ask you to be a footman."

Bates remained silent. He drained the remaining rye in his glass.

"God knows I wish I had someone I could talk to…about things…about the war. It was so hard coming home. I mean, I was thrilled to be here but it was all so strange. I don't know about you, but I sometimes have these dreams, they seem so real, that I'm back in Africa and there's no one around me, just all this shooting and explosions…"

They were silent for a few moments. Bates cleared his throat. "I get those dreams, too, sir. I wake up and I don't know where I am."

"Yes," Crawley said. "I've talked to our village doctor, a chap I've known for years, and he says it's a kind of war debility that I have. It's called Disordered Action of the Heart. He says he's seen it in other veterans."

Bates looked into his glass, wishing he could get a refresher.

"I dare say you have it, too, Bates."

Bates shot a look at Crawley. "Sir?"

"Bates," Crawley began, "it's obvious to me that you aren't well and I'm not talking about your damned leg."

Bates sucked in his breath, almost daring himself to strike the man.

"I am _not judging you_. But you are far from well and I can't even begin entertaining how to get you on staff here until you make yourself better."

Bates remained silent. Crawley took a deep breath and continued. "I owe you my life, Bates, and I shan't ever forget it. There's nothing I wouldn't do to help you that's in my power. But some things, only you can do to help yourself. And you must quit drinking."

There. He'd said it. The elephant that had been in the room since they first met, before the war, before his injury, had finally been recognized.

"I'm not saying you're a drunk. I can't really say I've ever seen you act like you're drunk. But I can say that I've rarely seen you when you haven't been drinking. Even before you got hurt, you were drinking, and Bates, I think it's going to kill you."

Silence. Bates took a deep breath. "I can't say I disagree with you, Sir."

Crawley felt a rush of relief. "There are some people who can help you stop this, you know. The doctor told me about inebriate hospitals. They aren't only in London. There's one in Scotland, not far from here, and a few in Ireland. You can pay for it with your incapacity benefits. And I will help you."

Bates tried to listen but his mind was racing. Crawley thought him a drunkard, or at least close to one. He was not going to get a job here. He'd have to return to London, the Army, his so-called marriage. He was not going to escape, not any time soon.

"Enough of this for now," Crawley declared. "I'd like you to meet my family before we go to luncheon."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Lady Cora waited for her husband and his guest in the salon with her three girls, two-year-old Sybil on her lap. Twelve-year-old Mary sat next to her, playing peek-a-boo with the baby while nine-year-old Edith perched on a chaise opposite her, staring past them at the door. Her mother-in-law and the girls' grandmother, Lady Grantham, sat next to Edith, smiling as she watched Mary play with the baby.

"What are you thinking, Edith?" Lady Cora asked her daughter. Edith blinked and re-focused her attention on her mother. "That Papa almost died in Africa!" she said. "It would have been so horrible!" She pronounced it "puh-PAH" as her granny had taught her.

"Edith, you are being morbid again," Lady Grantham intoned. "Your father did his duty for King and Country as any honorable Englishman would. There's nothing to gain by imaging the worst that could have happened."

Lady Cora was about to voice a more soothing response but her eldest daughter cut in first. "You were so young wouldn't have remembered him. You were just a baby yourself," she said. "And it wasn't Papa who almost died, it was Serjeant Bates. He's the one who was shot." Mary used the same affected pronunciation as her sister, something their American-born mother would never quite get used to. It was so strange to have children who sounded nothing like her.

"But it could have been Papa!" Edith almost wailed.

"And he came home safely," their mother interjected. "It is true that a lot of men didn't make it home, and many came home badly hurt." Robert had told her that Bates' injury had never really healed, and at their most recent meeting, it seemed to be worse than he remembered.

"The best thing about Papa coming home was that you had Sybil," Mary cooed at her little sister, who returned a gap-toothed grin and reached out to her. Lady Cora released her to Mary's arms. Edith looked confused. "What do you mean?" she asked. "We would still have Sybil wouldn't we?" Lady Cora flashed a look at Mary, who giggled into her baby sister's hair. She was about to tell Edith that they would discuss this later when she was rescued by the arrival of the Earl of Grantham.

"The Earl, m'lady," the bowing footman announced. The Earl entered, holding a large envelope in one hand and a cane in the other. "Look what I found, girls," he said. "Here are some photos your father sent to me when he was at the officers' camp just before going to war. You'll see how handsome he was in his uniform!"

Edith jumped up and ran to her grandfather, Mary behind her with little Sybil still in her arms. Edith snatched the photos from him. "He looks so different there!" Edith said. "So serious!"

Lady Cora laughed. "Please, Father, sit down here. Edith, bring those photos over here so we can all see them." She remembered how proud her father-in-law had been of Robert and his rapid advancement from second lieutenant to captain.

The Earl and Edith seated themselves on either side of her. There was Robert posing with other officers; another showed him with several of the soldiers he led. She knew which one was John Bates; he stood next to Robert in many of the photos, holding a rifle while the other soldiers brandished bayonets. He looked to be about the same height as Robert, but broader and darker. Black Irish, Robert had told her. Tough stuff.

"I don't recall seeing this one before," Lady Cora remarked, holding a photo of Robert and Bates alone, their arms around each other's shoulders. Robert held a pistol in his other hand, while Bates gripped his rifle. A huge sheath holding a long hunting knife hung from his hip. Robert had told her that Bates was a sharpshooter, one of the few in their unit who had been given a Lee-Enfield rifle. No doubt that rifle saved their lives, he had said.

Robert was smiling broadly while Bates showed a little half-smile, almost as if he was amused. "Come look at this, Edith dear, Papa is smiling in this one."

They spent the next few minutes passing around the photographs, commenting on Papa's guns, the soldiers' bayonets, and uniforms. The Earl explained the helmet-like hats they wore, and pointed out the Sam Browne officers' belt their father wore.

The door opened once again as Crawley and Bates entered. Still engrossed in the photos, no one noticed them or looked up.

The two men looked at each other. "Do you think they know we're here, Bates?" Crawley asked. He cleared his throat once, then a second time.

The Earl looked up. "Robert! We've found some photographs that might be of interest." He pulled himself up, leaning on a cane for support. Bates tried not to stare. An Army doctor had suggested he use a cane to take some of the strain off his bad leg. He'd rejected the idea outright, fearing it would draw more attention to his disability. Crawley hadn't mentioned that his father was crippled but he supposed such talk wasn't permitted among the landed class. And anyway, the Earl was elderly; no doubt that explained his cane.

Crawley motioned Bates to follow him as he greeted his family. "Mother, Father, Cora, this is Serjeant John Bates. My former batman, a name I'm sure you recognize."

The Earl stepped forward and extended his hand to Bates. "Serjeant Bates, I cannot tell you how grateful we are for your service, to England, to our son." "Thank you, sir," Bates responded softly as they shook hands. Grantham turned to his wife who now stood beside him. "Please let me introduce my wife, Lady Grantham." Bates bowed his head slightly and gently took the hand offered to him.

"And my wife, Lady Cora," Crawley drew her toward Bates. Lady Cora nodded and smiled. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Serjeant," she said. "My husband has spoken of you many, many times. I'm so glad he finally persuaded you to come see us." She, too, held out her hand.

"Thank you, ma'am—m'lady," Bates answered, even more softly as he took her hand. God, she was beautiful. He had been prepared to focus more on understanding her American accent; he'd met several Yankee soldiers over the years and found many of them almost impossible to comprehend. Thankfully, Lady Cora spoke clearly because her words more or less washed over him. He wasn't expecting this reaction. He'd seen a few photos of her that Crawley kept with him in Africa and she looked pretty enough in them. In person, she was far more elegant yet sweet-faced. She was tall, almost as tall as he and Crawley; it was hard to not stare into her dark blue eyes.

Lady Cora removed her hand from Bates' grasp—she noticed he'd held it a bit longer than expected-and turned and motioned for the two young girls to come over, a small blonde girl and a tall dark-haired teenager holding the baby Crawley told him had been "a most pleasant surprise." The older girl looked like a young, gangly version of her mother and the younger one, a little feminine version of her father, with wavy hair and a direct manner.

"Thank you for saving Papa's life," the little one said, looking up at him. He bent over and took her hand. "You are most welcome," he told her, a small smile creeping across his face. His hip ached a bit and he wished he could bend down into a crouch to speak with her. She looked and spoke so much like her father.

"Mary says if you didn't save him we wouldn't have Sybil," the little girl continued. "I don't think I could bear it not having Sybil so it's very good that Papa got home." Bates felt his smile get a little wider and wished he could see Crawley's face. He heard someone—Lady Grantham?—cough.

"And here is my eldest, Mary, and little Sybil," Crawley broke in. Bates rose back up as Mary offered her free hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Mary," he said, taking her hand and giving her the same head bow as her mother. "Thank you," Mary answered, "and as Edith put it _so_ well, thank you for bringing our father home to us."

The footman opened the door and announced that luncheon was ready.

* * *

Bates watched as the ladies filed out the door and down the wide hall to the dining room. Grantham followed them, and Crawley motioned for Bates to follow his father. The dining room almost took Bates' breath away. The table was set far more luxuriously than anything he'd seen in the officers' formal dining hall at Shrapnel where Vera occasionally served, and even grander than the one at the Retired Officers Club. And was that an original Van Dyck of Charles I lording over the room?

Crawley motioned Bates to sit between Lady Cora and Lady Mary. He himself sat opposite them, between his mother and Edith. A highchair seating baby Sybil was placed on Lady Cora's other side, between her ladyship and the Earl, who sat at the head of the table. "We hope you don't mind our informal luncheon, Serjeant," the Earl said. "Sybil doesn't normally dine with us but we wanted you to experience our entire family," he laughed. "Hopefully Sybil won't be tossing food about like she did last time we let her in."

"That's why we have Pharoah here," Crawley added. "He makes it much easier for the maids." Mary and Edith giggled.

Bates smiled inwardly. He appreciated the decision to keep luncheon a less formal occasion and the family's obvious desire to make him feel more relaxed. He stole a glance at Lady Cora to his left and saw her exchange a smile with her husband.

Still, there was formal service at the luncheon. Having dined at the Officers' Club with Crawley and occasionally worked service himself before his injury, Bates knew exactly what to do. He sensed some surprise from Lady Grantham and relief on the part of Lady Cora; evidently they were unsure what to expect from a former, lame batman.

The conversation was pleasant, surprisingly so. The Earl was interested to find out what prompted him to join the service and Crawley eagerly described why he had selected Bates for the batman position: "smart chap, tough, looked good in uniform and oh, what a shot!"

"Actually, Robert," Lady Cora cut in, "the girls and I were looking at those photos your father kept that you sent home from the boot camp. We all agreed that Serjeant Bates looked much more handsome than you in uniform." Bates turned to her with a smile. "Thank you, m'lady, but I must assure you, Lord Grantham looks far better in a civilian suit than I could ever hope." Lady Cora smiled. "I can't say I disagree, and that I am much more comfortable when he put away the uniform and went back to wearing suits."

"How does your wife feel about you staying in the Army, Serjeant?" Lady Crawley asked. Robert stiffened. He had not shared any private details about Bates with his family. Cora had asked if he was married and he told her yes, but had never met Mrs. Bates. He wasn't even sure if there were children. He hoped not.

Bates was prepared for a question like that. "Oh, she expected I would stay with the Army after the war. She herself works at Army functions and she enjoys the NCO mess with the other wives." The latter was partly true; he had never known Vera to actually befriend other Army wives. However, he had once, and only once, caught her flirting rather outrageously at the mess. He had put an end to it, of course; he could hardly stand being called a cuckold. It was bad enough to be a cripple, and he knew that even he couldn't drink enough to block out of the stigma of being called a crippled cuckold. A short stay in the brig and a four-month ban from the mess was worth the price of the knockout punch he'd laid on a slightly senior serjeant that night.

"Bates was made a Colour Serjeant last year, wasn't it, Bates?" Robert asked. Bates nodded. "What is a colour serjeant?" Lady Cora asked. Bates explained that it was only an honorific given to serjeants with a long service record; in his case, ten years.

"And of course, to recognize your sacrifice," Lady Cora added. "Getting injured in the line of duty deserves some kind of recognition."

Robert shot her a look. He'd told her that Bates was highly sensitive to any reference to his injury. Cora looked back at him, confused.

"It's not really part of it," Bates managed to answer. "It's something they give for long service. To keep us there, I suppose."

"We do the same thing here at Downton Abbey," Lady Cora said. "Our staff receive a small gift on the first anniversary of their employment here, and they receive additional recognition every five years. I think they understand how we appreciate their work."

"Must we speak of money?" Lady Crawley asked, clearly annoyed by her daughter-in-law's obvious attempt to cover an egregious error. Pointing out the poor man's limp! He'd looked like he wanted to slink under the table.

"What did we give Anna?" Lady Mary asked.

Bates looked over to her and then to Crawley. "Would that be the girl who I met in the library?"

Crawley thought for a moment. "Yes, that's right—you met our Anna," he answered. "A great favourite of our girls."

"Anna's the best maid we've ever had!" Edith declared. "I love Anna!"

"Adda!" said baby Sybil, dropping a piece of bread on the floor. Pharoah dashed under the table for it.

"Oh, Anna," Lady Cora laughed. "She's just wonderful. She cleans the girls' rooms and is learning how to do hair as well. Mrs. Hughes thinks she could eventually be a ladies' maid."

"So what did we give her?" Mary asked. "We haven't given anything to her yet, dear," her mother answered. "She hasn't quite reached one year here, but perhaps you can ask her what she would like."

"I already know that," Mary said. "Some pretty pins for her hair and her own copy of _Jane Eyre_."

"Hairpins would be nice," Lady Cora said.

_Jane Eyre, indeed!_ Bates thought to himself.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Lunch had been surprisingly pleasant, given that Bates had just met the family.

After they finished a delicious dessert of cherry tart, he'd found himself being interviewed by little Edith. She had endless questions about her Papa during the war, Africa, and living in London.

Did Papa really ride a horse in Africa? Did they see any lions? Leopards? Elephants? Giraffes?

Where did he live in London? Was it near their home in Mayfair? Did he ever row on the river?

"Edith!" Lady Cora tried to interrupt several times. "No worries, m'lady," Bates said. "I'm happy to answer any and all questions." Crawley seemed highly amused by Edith's inquiries until she asked about Bates' children—did they miss their papa, too, while he was away fighting the war?

"I don't have children, miss," he answered.

"Why ever not?" Edith asked.

"I'm not sure," Bates responded. He could sense Lady Cora tensing next to him.

"Well that's not right," Edith declared. "You should get some. Maybe Mama and Papa can tell you and Mrs Bates how to get babies like Sybil."

"_Edith_!" her mother and grandmother hissed in unison. Edith looked confused. "But Serjeant Bates is so nice, he _should_ have children," she whimpered.

Crawley stared across the table at Bates in horror for just a moment. Bates looked down for a few seconds, then back at his host and…laughed like he hadn't in laughed in years. He laughed so hard he shook the chair and had to mop his face with his handkerchief. Crawley was laughing hard, too, and pushed his chair back, his head in his hands.

"Oh Edith!" he gasped. "What are we going to do with you!"

Bates tried to collect himself but it was no use. Crawley's face was bright red, Lady Cora looked like she was going to faint, and Lady Grantham's face was frozen. The old Earl, he noticed, had missed the entire conversation and was asking what was so funny. Lady Mary started to answer but a look from her grandmother stopped her. The footmen, young lads in their 20s, he guessed, were shaking slightly, their lips pressed together and their eyes all but tearing.

Finally, Bates and Crawley calmed down. The ladies looked cross, Bates thought, but he was pretty sure he heard Lady Mary snicker once or twice. Crawley stood up. "Ladies," he said, "on that note I must ask you to excuse Serjeant Bates and myself to take leave of you."

"Please do," Lady Grantham muttered to herself. Lady Cora looked at her husband briefly, then at Bates. She nodded. "Please let us know before you leave, Serjeant," she said quietly. Bates nodded back to her. "Of course," he whispered. Now he felt ashamed of his outburst. She had been mortified by her child's questioning and he had laughed like a lunatic.

Outside in the hallway, Crawley started to apologize for his daughter's inquisitiveness. "I should have stopped her," he said, "but to be honest, Bates, you seemed to enjoy it. I daresay you talked more about the war at luncheon than you ever have before."

"I may have," Bates grinned. "I'll have to be more careful next time a child chats me up."

"Come, let me show you a bit of the grounds," Crawley said and the two men cut through the sitting room and through the French doors that opened up to a wide swath of lawn.

* * *

They were walking around the house and gardens, slowly, to accommodate Bates' leg. Pharoah dashed ahead of them, stopping now and then to let them catch up. Crawley was still somewhat shocked by the extent that his old batman had deteriorated. In Africa, Bates usually led the patrols, setting a brisk pace that kept the boys awake and alert, and ready for rest when they halted. He'd had a sense of how to manage them, and knew when they needed to stop for food or water (or in his case, whiskey), when to rest, when to forge ahead.

And look at him now. Oh, he saw that on the outside, Bates looked fine, even rather handsome. But Crawley had seen him in better days and what he saw was a pale, rather sickly-looking man who practically dragged his leg. Why on earth was he not using a stick for support?

Bates brought up the topic first. "About that war sickness, sir…m'lord," he began. Crawley looked at him, surprised. He had been thinking of a way to reintroduce the subject and nodded, relieved, encouraging Bates to continue. "I think I should like to go to one of the hospitals you talked about."

"Good," Crawley said. "And I repeat what I said earlier: I will help you, in any way I can."

"I need to stop this, this way of living," Bates said slowly, as if the words were hard to let out. "And it's not just drink…it's bad behaviour all around."

"I find that hard to believe," Crawley started to say. Bates stopped walking. "I've held back a lot from you, m'lord." He turned to face Crawley. "I've been a right monster for the past four, five years. I've dishonored and disrespected my wife and the uniform. I drink _every single day_, sometimes first thing in the morning. I wake up and don't know where I am more often than not. And I've been with more women than you can imagine."

"Bates," Crawley said softly. "You know how I was during the war. Don't beat yourself up too much."

Bates shook his head. "M'lord, sometimes I don't even bother to ask their names. I don't even feel much when I'm with them. And you are right—if I don't stop drinking and…carousing…passing out wherever…I will be dead, and very soon."

Crawley took a deep breath. "Then, my dear man, we will work together to get you back, to get you back to the John Bates you used to be."

They turned and started walking again.

"What do I do now?" Bates asked.

"You return to London and get your affairs in order. Expect to be away for several months. Make sure Vera has enough money and whatever else she needs. I will investigate what hospital is best for you—there are a few in London, if you want to be near Vera or your mother, and a very good one in Carlisle, I believe, not too far from here really, if you prefer to be away from it all."

He glanced at Bates. "You know, if you sobered up, you might just be able to fix your marriage, too."

Bates didn't answer. He didn't expect Vera to support the idea of him going away for months to take care of himself. She relied upon his Army pay for their rent and food. He could get paid for a couple of months of leave, but not more. Vera's occasional jobs cleaning up after formal barracks dinners didn't pay much and she really had no one else. Oh, sure, he knew she had her male admirers but he doubted that any would be willing to support her emotionally or financially; they were more like toys to her and she to them.

His mother wouldn't take her in, he knew that. The two women detested one another. But maybe his mother could be persuaded to loan him some more money to help support Vera while he was away, trying to dry out and fix himself. She was always after him to quit drinking.

_Money_, he thought to himself. _It's always about money, whether you even have enough to take the time off to get better._ Families like the Crawleys could afford to sail off to another country, if necessary, to get better from whatever ailed them. Not him. Even with his Army wages—which were pretty generous given that a trained monkey could do his job—there never seemed to be enough—they were constantly in debt. _At least there won't be any need for whiskey money._

He couldn't voice any of this to Crawley, of course. He'd already confessed too much. But maybe, just maybe, this time he could do it, if he had the support of a friend like Crawley.

Was this what hope felt like? If it was, it felt good. He turned to Crawley, who had been watching him closely. "Thank you, m'lord. This time I want to make things right. And I will."

"No more disappearing on me?" Crawley asked.

"No, sir. No more disappearing."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

This time, the train didn't soothe his anxiety. His stomach was flipping around, almost in rhythm with the swaying motions.

Lord Crawley, Viscount of Grantham, pledged to support Bates as he worked to get off drink. Crawely, his old wartime commander, also promised to investigate inebriate hospitals that helped people like him get off drink. Crawley would stand by him.

In return, Bates promised Crawley that he wouldn't disappear like he had in the years following the war-that same war he entered with a ridiculously romantic patriotic fever and the expectation that he'd emerge a hero with a grand military career. Instead, the war left him a cripple and in near-constant pain. It turned a harmless fondness for an occasional whiskey into an equally distressing obsession for alcohol.

Alcohol was wrecking havoc on his life. His marriage was in shambles, his self-respect eroded, his professionalism probably in question. Even his mother had threatened to turn her back—more than once.

But Crawley had suggested that his tippling hadn't been harmless, even before the war and his injury. "You must quit drinking," Crawley said. "I can say that I've rarely seen you when you haven't been drinking. Even before you got hurt, you were drinking."

Nonetheless he also said he owed his life to Bates. "I shan't ever forget it," he'd told him. And more importantly, Crawley said he wasn't judging him. He would do whatever he could to help him. "We will work together to get you back, to get you back to the John Bates you used to be."

His mother, too, was always after him to quit drinking. "You're better than this, John," she'd tell him. "I know you have it in you to stop this."

Vera was the only real complication in this picture. She depended on him even though they both knew she had come to find him repellant.

At first, she'd tried to keep up with his drinking, almost as if she wanted to share something with him, discover what it was that consumed him so. This only irritated him. She got drunk easily, too quickly, and flirted with other men just as she'd once flirted with him. And as she attracted men, he found that he couldn't satisfy her. If he tried to with alcohol, she complained that he smelled like drink. If he tried when he wasn't drinking, the pain in his leg was too distracting.

It got to the point where he didn't care if she wanted to be with him at all. She found other men, and other women seemed to keep finding him. Still, he needed funds to keep Vera placated while he went away to fight off the drink. She couldn't survive on her own and he couldn't very well tell her to go off with another man.

Crawley told him that once he was off the drink, he might be able to repair his marriage. Of course, Crawley didn't have all the facts—that both he and Vera were guilty of plenty of infidelities—but the idea of reconciling with her wasn't altogether unattractive. It would be ideal, he mused, if they could enjoy each other like they did before the war. Maybe they could even start a family, although he had begun to wonder if there were problems in that area. She hadn't conceived after the early miscarriage she had shortly after they wed.

Or maybe it he had that heart disorder that Crawley had talked about. Maybe it somehow interfered with his ability to father children. Perhaps that explained why Sybil came so many years after the other children; Crawley said she was a surprise baby.

It would be nice to have a child once he was cleaned up and reconciled with Vera.

He finally came to a resolution. He would talk to his mother about loaning him money to help support his household while he was away fixing himself. She would surely be glad to know that that he was doing this. He wouldn't tell her that the money was really for Vera, but stress that it would help pay rent while he was away so that he'd have a place to come home to after he was cured.

He knew she would do just about anything to help him stop drinking.

He would explain to Vera that money would be tight but that in his absence, the rent would be taken care of. Plus, he would vow to never spend a farthing on drink again.

And then, maybe there was a future for them at Downton Abbey. It could offer them a fresh start. With good wages, he could support her in a nice little cottage while she might find work in the village, nothing strenuous, just something to keep her busy. Until they had children, of course.

He felt better. Decisions were good. He pulled out a book from his satchel and signaled the teacart to stop. He needed a sandwich and more peppermints.

* * *

The train arrived just as the shops were closing. He hurried off, hoping to get home before Vera left for her evening.

Then something caught his eye.

A bookseller's stall was still set up. Incredibly, there it was, right out front as if it were a new publication, a copy of _Jane Eyre_. He stopped to purchase it.

Tomorrow, he'd go to the post and send it to young Mary Crawley, with the suggestion that she give it to that sweet young maid Anna. It would be the perfect gift to mark the end of her first year in service.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

He took a cab home, his leg too painful for a long walk and his head aching as he'd had only a couple of sips from the flask—and that was hours earlier.

He ascended the stairs slowly, trying to minimize the weight to his knee. He could hear the tenants in the second story clanging around their kitchen, probably cleaning up their evening meal. A baby's wail, followed by the sound of a singing child. Theirs was a happier flat.

He unlocked the door to his flat and opened it slowly. Vera appeared, walking in to the kitchen from their bedroom, dressed to go out.

She looked….nice. Her dress was worn, but neatly pressed, and her hair was swept under a simple hat. She held a coat over one arm. She looked at him with hard but tired eyes.

"Hello," he said.

She nodded. "Hello John," she said carefully. She watched as he turned to close the door, put down his bag, and lower himself slowly into a chair at the table. She thought he looked nervous. That was odd.

"Where have you been?" she asked.

He hesitated before answering. "I took a trip to Yorkshire," he said slowly.

"To visit your captain?"

"Yes."

"Nice of you to let me know. We still have to pay last month's rent and we have that bill from the butcher's."

He said nothing, but lifted his eyes to meet her face. She didn't look angry, just frustrated and perhaps a bit sad?

"I haven't been able to buy much food and certainly not any meat. My friends have been helping me out, inviting me to share meals with them."

His mouth twitched. "Which _friends_ are you speaking of, Vera?"

She shot an angry look at him. "The ones who feel sorry for me, stuck with a loaded up cripple like you. The ones who _care_ about me."

He looked up at her. "Please, sit down. Let's have some tea."

"I _don't want_ to sit down! And I don't want tea. I want a _meal_. I haven't eaten anything all day except a potato this morning. I'm _starving_. And there's a friend waiting for me who'll buy dinner. I was on my way out when you showed up."

He absorbed this for a moment. "Can I come with you?"

"Do you have any money?"

"A little. I asked for an advance before I left."

"It would have been nice if you left some money for me, too."

"I wasn't sure if you'd be back at all."

Vera looked at him. "Where the hell would I go, John?"

He didn't want to answer her. "I have to go away again. I won't be away long but I need to go. I need to talk to you about this."

Vera let out a low chuckle. "Oh, sure. Going away again. Where to? Back to Africa? Or are you leaving to be with your captain?"

"Nice, Vera. Very nice."

"Look, _I_ have to go. I'm _really_ hungry. You can come along if you want but you'd better have enough to pay for both of us. I can't expect my friend to pay for me if you're there."

He stood up and turned to the door. He opened and stepped aside, looking back at her. Somewhat shocked, she walked out to the hallway and waited as he locked it. She hurried down the stairs ahead of him, not sure if she wanted to be seen with him.

He watched her disappear down the stairs and wondered if she would wait for him. He could hear her heels clatter past the second floor. He stopped for a moment to listen for the front door open and the sounds of the street.

Nothing loud wafted up his way, just the muffled sound of horses' hooves and the occasional motor behind a closed door.

She was waiting for him. He nodded to her and pushed ahead to open the door and hold it for her. A little nervous, she stepped outside and turned toward him.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Bear Claw," she answered.

Good. The Bear Claw was a decent pub. It served workingmen and women, but it wasn't a bawdy place by a long stretch. People enjoyed themselves there. It was known for good pies, big barmen, and pretty servers. The publican was a big fellow who didn't hesitate to throw people out at the first sign of trouble.

He was pretty sure that this wasn't the pub he'd been thrown out of a couple of weeks ago after an argument. That pub was closer to the barracks, he reassured himself.

He couldn't help notice that she kept a careful distance from him. They didn't talk, just walked side by side. He glanced at her a few times but she didn't turn to look at him. He could have been escorting a prisoner.

* * *

The Bear Claw was only a few blocks away. Rain started to fall and he realized he should have brought an umbrella to shield her. That would have been a nice gesture he was sure she would have appreciated.

It had been so long since he even bothered to try to do something nice for her. Maybe tonight he could. He'd eat very little so that she could have her fill and he'd take care to drink lightly; just one drink to sip for the evening. He'd managed on just a couple of sips a few times today; how hard could it be for another hour or two?

They reached the pub and she stood aside to let him open the door for her. She walked inside, careful to stay ahead of him enough to avoid any contact. He followed her to a booth by the window where a man sat alone, reading a paper.

Vera stopped and cleared her throat. The man looked up, smiled, and put down the paper. "Hello, love," he said, as he stood up and gestured for her to sit opposite him.

Vera unbuttoned her coat and was startled when she felt Bates slide it off her shoulders and pull it away from her arms. She turned to watch him hang it up on a nearby hook, remove his hat and coat and hang those as well. Turning, he limped back to the table and slipped in next to her, his leg bumping into hers. He couldn't help noticing her shudder.

The man smiled at him. "You must be Vera's old man," he said.

"John Bates," Bates said, extending a hand across the table.

"Henry Reed," the man said, shaking Bates' hand. Bates had a feeling that it wasn't his real name.

"You didn't tell me your old man was around, Vera," Reed said, a small smile on his mouth. "Are you thinking of introducing him to our…_business_?"

Vera glared at him. "Oh, no, that would be impossible. John's very upright and moral, you see. He wouldn't get involved in our line of work, Mr. Reed." Her voice sounded tight. "Anyway, please put in an order for me. Supper special's fine. I haven't had much to eat all day."

"And you, Mr. Bates?" Reed asked. "What can we get for you?"

"Loaf of bread and whiskey, neat," Bates said quietly, almost a whisper.

"My pleasure," Reed said, turning toward the bar.

Vera shook her head. "You don't have enough money for both of us, do you?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"_Dear Lady Mary,_

_It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance this week. _

_Do you remember the conversation at luncheon about what to get Anna for her one-year anniversary at Downton Abbey? As I got off my train in London, guess what I saw? The very book you mentioned, right there in a bookstall! _

_I hope you don't mind that I picked it up for you to give to Anna. I'm sure you are a much better judge of hairpins, which I recall was your other suggestion for her gift._

_Please give my best to your family._

_John Bates"_

He couldn't help grinning as he gently blew the ink dry on the paper. He had thought about sending the book directly to Anna, but he didn't even know her surname. Sending it care of Downton Abbey was likely to get her in trouble for having a supposed admirer. Even he recognized that it would seem odd to send a gift to someone he met only once, and for a few minutes at that. No, sending it to Lady Mary to pass along was a much better idea, and one that he knew would seem innocent enough.

He did hope, though, that Lady Mary would mention that the book came from him, that he remembered what she said Anna would appreciate.

He took the book from his overnight bag to carry to the post on his way to the barracks, leaving the letter to dry on the desk.

"What's this, then?"

Vera walked over to the desk where he sat, reading his note over her shoulder.

"Just a note to Lord Crawley's daughter," he answered. "I'm sending a book to her that came up in conversation."

"I see. And why are you buying books for this girl...to give to…someone called Anna?"

He sighed. He knew his explanation would sound strange but he tried anyway. "Anna is a servant at Downton Abbey. I was chatting with her while waiting for Lord Crawley. It turns out she's a favourite of his daughters, and they were talking about getting her a gift to mark the end of her first year working there—"

"Right," Vera said. "And you want to come across as such a nice, thoughtful _gentleman_ who saw the perfect gift." She shook her head. "Don't send anything, John. Your Lord Crawley will probably think it's…creepy…for you to be sending books and whatnot to his daughter or his servant or whatever. You _do_ sometimes come across that way," she added.

Bates was stung. An innocent purchase for someone else, even if it was made on a whim, was creepy?

Vera's eyes fell on the book. "_Wuthering Heights_?" she spluttered. Then she laughed. "Oh, that's brilliant! Oh lord, John, you have no idea! Go ahead—send it. Maybe they'll get the joke!"

Angry, he stuffed the book in the pocket of his overcoat along with the note. He heard something rip. He rose from his chair, pushing Vera backward. She stumbled, tripped, and fell backward, hard, on the floor.

"You bastard!" she shrieked, clutching her left shoulder. "Ahh…." She moaned in pain. "I think you broke it this time!"

He turned to her and offered a hand to help her up. She winced and looked away. "Get out of here. I can't stand the sight of you anymore."

"Vera, you know you made yourself fall. I didn't even touch you—"

"Just GO!"

"Let me help you get up."

"Get out! NOW!"

* * *

He knocked on Audrey Bartlett's door. A dog barked, and a voice: "Shut up!" Then a sharp voice: "Who's there?"

"John Bates." He took a step back so that she could see him as she peered out the window.

"What d'ya want?"

"Vera needs some help. Can I talk to you?"

The door opened and a woman of medium height and dark red hair glared out at him. "You're Vera's husband?"

"Yes, I am."

"What's wrong with her? Another miscarriage?"

His eyes widened. He and Vera barely had any relations in several months, just a few for relief more than anything else. He usually climaxed outside of her, to prevent a pregnancy. She'd miscarried early in their marriage, the only time he was aware that she had been pregnant.

"No…she's fallen…and she won't let me help her up. I was hoping you could help her."

"Fallen, or pushed?" Mrs. Bartlett spat at him. "I know all about ye, John Bates. You're a cripple and a mean one at that. Beat her up, don't you? Or are ye too drunk to remember?"

He glared back at her. "All I did was move my chair to get up and that knocked her down. Supposedly. _I didn't touch her_."

She fixed her angry black eyes on him. "I've seen her hurting. And everyone knows you drink and have an _evil_ mouth on you. I know all about you."

"Are you going to come help her or not?"

"I'll be right out. You, go away. I don't want to see your face here again."

* * *

He needed a drink. He'd left his flask at home. He knew he had to report for duty but first he needed a drink. Luckily, there was no shortage of pubs in Abbey Wood.

* * *

He hurried to the barracks to report to work. His leg hurt and he was angry, very angry. Even when he _tried_ to be nice to Vera, tried to be nice to _anyone_, it flew back in his face.

After returning from the pub the previous night, Vera seemed a little calmer, nicer. They'd even kissed a few times, and this time she'd laughed—no, _giggled_—when she observed his whiskey breath. They'd shared their bed, nothing really exciting for either of them, but it had been nice. Comforting, in a way.

And in the morning, she was her usual self. Called him a creep, when all he was trying to do was be nice, make a good impression.

"What's the use?" he thought to himself as he tossed the book and torn note into a rubbish pile for the road sweeper to collect.

He passed through the barracks gate and saluted the guards on duty. One of them called out to him.

"Serjeant Bates!" He turned.

"Please come with us," the guard said.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

He froze and watched as the guard stepped out of the sentry box and approached him.

"Lieutenant Allen has asked for you," the guard informed him. "Follow me, please, sir."

At least he'd said "sir." The guard was, after all, a corporal and he a Serjeant, a Colour Serjeant at that. One who'd earned the title for staying in the service and doing his duty.

Lucky for him Lieutenant Allen wasn't a bad sort. He'd served with Crawley after Bates had been injured and sent home, and had sought him out when he'd returned from the war. He knew about how he'd been injured by protecting their commanding officer.

Allen was now with the Judge Advocate's office. Bates assumed he was going to be written up for drinking. Thank god he kept the peppermints with him at all times. He'd only had one drink; he couldn't possibly smell like whiskey. And since Allen knew him, perhaps he was only being called in for a warning.

* * *

The guard led him to a row of buildings that housed the Judge Advocate's offices. He followed him inside, down a corridor to Allen's office. The guard knocked and the door opened. A serjeant looked over Bates. "Bates?" he asked. Bates nodded. "Dismissed," the serjeant told the guard and waved Bates inside.

The guard watched as Bates limped into the office. "Wait here," he said. "I'll let the Lieutenant know you're here." He paused. "And please, sit down," he added, motioning him to a wooden armchair. He turned toward the back of the office and knocked on a door before entering.

Bates seated himself and tried to keep calm. He'd probably been reported by one of the enlisted men who saw him passed out in the barracks. This had happened one time to many, he had to admit to himself. But his work hadn't suffered; at least, he didn't think it had. No one had complained the he was slow, or inaccurate, but there had been a couple of comments about people who drink too much. Another reprimand, though, would be a problem. He'd already had a couple for fighting.

The serjeant reappeared. "Lieutenant Allen will see you now."

Bates rose, steadied himself, and hobbled over to Allen's office. His leg had started to throb, probably from nerves as much as anything else. Usually he felt only a dull ache. He tried his best to walk more steadily as he entered Allen's office, straightened up as best he could, and saluted the officer sitting at a large desk.

Allen waved his hand. "As ease, Serjeant. Please, sit down." Bates lowered himself into a chair in front of Allen's desk.

Allen reached for a file and opened it. Bates noticed that there were not many papers in it. That was a good sign; there weren't heaps of complaints about him. Perhaps he could explain away whatever the problem turned out to be.

Allen looked up from the file and gazed at Bates. People had talked about him a lot in Africa. He'd arrived after Bates had been shipped home, but he knew all about how Bates had saved Captain Crawley, their commanding officer, from a bullet and took one himself as he directed the platoon to return fire. He'd shot two snipers in trees before he himself was taken down. The enlisted men had been in awe of him, and Crawley openly admired him, so much so that Allen made a point to visit the man when he returned from the war.

He remembered a wife who didn't seem particularly sympathetic to her wounded husband, and a soldier who seemed to have had the life sucked out of him. It was depressing. He tried to cheer Bates up, telling him about how the old platoon talked of his heroism, mentioned his medals. But he hadn't kept up with him, or all that much with Crawley for that matter.

He could see that the passing years hadn't been good for Bates. He stayed in the Army, probably because a man with a permanent injury would have a time trying to find work. He was assigned a desk position, but with no command or anyone to supervise. Allen had heard that Bates drank, but no one had formally reported him for misbehaviour. Since obtaining his file, he now knew about Bates getting into fights; in at least one of them, Allen thought, the other chap deserved a busted nose. Bates had been sentenced to a short time in the brig, according to the records, and banned from the mess for a few months. Nothing all that unusual, really. Any man worth his salt would take down someone messing with his woman.

This latest event, however, was serious, and Allen hoped to hell it wasn't true.

Bates was looking straight back at him. Allen cleared his throat and began to speak. "Serjeant Bates, I have the unpleasant duty to inform you that your wife and another man have been taken into custody for conspiracy to steal and stealing regimental property."

Bates' eyes widened and he trembled slightly. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn't come out, couldn't come out. "They are currently being questioned by police, with our Judge Advocate staff present," Allen added.

"When?" Bates finally gasped.

"About two hours ago," Allen said. "You understand, Serjeant, that this puts you in a very…_unusual_ situation."

Bates nodded. "I understand, sir." He took a few shaky breaths.

"I would like you to remain here until our staff return," Allen said. "They will want to question you. You do not have to remain here, however, if you do you will be spared the…the spectacle…of having them come for you in your office." He leaned forward. "I don't want to make this uncomfortable, for you, Serjeant. I am aware of your recent misfortunes as reflected on your record. But I also know your history and your service. I think we can work together to get you the help you need…if you cooperate with the investigation."

Bates looked over Allen's head to think. This must be the "business" that Vera had mentioned when they'd met up with that odious Henry Reed. Or whoever he was. At least this time Vera had been right—he wouldn't be interested in their business. He might be a lot of undesirable things, but he was not a thief.

"I must assume I am also a suspect," Bates said, looking back at Allen.

"I can't say for sure," Allen replied, leaning back into his chair. "Nothing in your record indicates suspicious behaviour on this matter. Others, yes, but not this. I think you know what I'm speaking of, Serjeant."

Bates looked down. "Once our people return here," Allen continued, "I will have a better idea as to your status, if you might be arrested or remain a person of interest in this case. I must ask you, though, is there any reason your wife or this man, this….Henry Reed…would tie you to the crimes they are alleged to have committed?"

Bates' head shot back up. _Oh my god,_ he thought. _Of course she will name me_.

"Yes, sir, I believe she would," he answered. He didn't deny his involvement—for one thing, he hadn't been asked; and for another, denying it at this stage would only make him seem more, not less, guilty. He had to think very carefully about how to proceed.

"Well, at least that gives us an idea of where you stand in this case," Allen said slowly. "But a thief's word is never one that carries much weight," he said, thinking out loud and speaking more quickly. "As long as we can substantiate where you were when these crimes took place, you should be all right. As an active duty member, you fall under our jurisdiction. I can assure you that the Judge Advocate's office is not interested in pressing charges against the wrong person just to solve a case."

"Your wife, however, and the other civilian fall under the civil authorities and I can't say that they operate with the same…the same _objectives_ that we do here. They answer to a larger and more divers group than ours. In other words, they _will_ _find_ someone to charge with these crimes."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Bates was dismissed from Allen's office and led to another room with a table and a few chairs neatly pushed in place around it. Otherwise, the room was bare. He assumed it was used for questioning suspects and witnesses and wondered in which category he would eventually be placed.

He propped his leg up on one of the extra chairs and gently rubbed his knee. Allen's staff serjeant came in to offer him coffee or tea. He asked for tea, which hit his stomach, empty save for the earlier whiskey, like a shot of vodka, something he'd encountered once and only once. Luckily, the serjeant allowed him to use the loo.

Later, a private entered with a lunch tray. He ate everything on it. He knew he'd need to get as much food inside his stomach to settle it. He had to assume that Vera would name him as the mastermind of her and Reed's "business" and that he would be as much a suspect as anyone else involved in this offence.

He knew why Vera did it. They just didn't have enough money. It wasn't solely his fault, or hers. She liked to spend money on silly trinkets, jewelry, and to treat her friends to a meal now and then. He knew she was right that he spent too much on drink. And books, hardly a vice and his only real entertainment. She complained no end about his book purchases, even calling his intention to send a book gift as "creepy."

But, he acknowledged to himself, he left Vera with responsibilities she couldn't handle, including making sure their rent was paid out. Time and again, they came up short. They were often in arrears on rent, which, he knew, agitated Vera. She had friends who'd been thrown into debtors' prisons and dreaded it for herself. She should have known that he'd never allow her to go to prison. He'd turn himself in before he'd let her rot in a jail.

It was a matter of pride, even if he didn't like, much less love her, any more. She was still his wife, still carried his name, still Mrs. John Bates. They were stuck with each other and while that was the reality, he'd be damned to sit by and watch her go to jail.

Except he somehow had done worse. He'd ignored her and her needs. He didn't take care of her like a husband was supposed to for his wife. Instead of sobering up, he'd spent money they needed and she turned to criminal activity to make ends meet. He was pretty sure that Henry Reed, or whoever he was, sweet-talked her into the scheme. Possibly, she had compromised herself with Reed.

Was Reed the source of the miscarriage Audrey Bartlett spat about to him? The abuse?

He couldn't get himself worked up to care if Vera caroused with other men, other than concern for his own health. Those Army hygiene lectures had stayed with him; he was careful about who _he_ was with. He did, however, mind it very much if Vera was being beaten. Or made pregnant by another man. There was no way that he would raise a child with her, particularly when he took such care to avoid getting her pregnant and denying his own pleasure…

He was returning from another trip to the loo when Lt. Allen and two other men approached him in the hallway, Major and another Lieutenant. "We have some news, Serjeant," Allen said, motioning him back inside the room.

Once inside, Bates stayed on his feet to salute the officers. "At ease," the major said. "Please take a seat, Serjeant."

Lt. Allen spoke first. "Serjeant Bates, this is Major Beckwith and Lt. Hunter. They were present at the investigation we discussed earlier concerning your wife and Mr. Henry Reed. As you may surmise, Major Beckwith is in charge of this investigation."

Bates nodded. "Yes sir."

The Major focused his eyes on him. "Serjeant Bates, your wife Vera Bates has been brought before a magistrate and charged with four counts of theft and intention to commit theft. She did not enter a plea and has been remanded to Holloway Prison pending bail for £200. Her colleague Henry Reed also refused to enter a plea at this time and has been remanded to Wormwood Scrubs."

Bates tried to keep a steady face but his heart thudded sickly and his stomach began to churn.

"If you wish to post bail for your wife, you can contact these bondsmen," Lt. Hunter pushed a piece of paper toward Bates. He glanced at it, folded it, and placed it in his pocket.

We questioned your wife and Mr. Reed," Hunter said. "Henry Reed named you as an accomplice. Your wife, however, denied any involvement by you. After subsequent questioning, we have determined that you are not a suspect or accessory to these crimes."

Bates could feel his stomach relax a bit. His heart, however, continued to thud. Vera had _denied_ that he was involved!

"We are, however, investigating other matters concerning your conduct on and off-duty."

Lt. Allen spoke next. "Serjeant Bates, you surely must know that there has been talk about your use of alcohol, which is reported to be excessive. While no one has formally come forward with a complaint, there have been unofficial contacts to this office regarding your impairment. This does not speak well of you, the uniform, or His Majesty's armed services.

"We, myself in particular, are aware of your past service during the African war, which was nothing short of exemplary. Your actions saved the life of a regimental officer, whose continued and enthusiastic support of this battalion has been noted by flag officers of the highest rank.

"Because of the circumstances surrounding your injury and the inadequate care provided to you at that time, we would like to offer a remedy for your more recent, ah, issues, without any negative consequence to your record."

Allen paused. Bates was listening and seemed interested, but looked frightened, Allen thought.

"We would like you to voluntarily enter inebriate treatment to address your issues with alcohol. Once you have successfully completed treatment, we will provide you with whatever medical services we have at our disposal to examine your injury and provide the proper care you should have had upon your return from Africa.

"We can't, of course, pledge that we can completely remedy your injury. But there have been advances in treating injuries such as yours that could help you live more comfortably and, we hope, alleviate your suffering."

Major Beckwith spoke next. "You should know, Serjeant, that His Majesty's most senior officers are quite aware that many—too many—of our veterans who were handicapped in service to Africa, as you were, were never properly cared for. The Army wants to do right by you men.

"But we cannot help you until and unless you agree to help yourself."

It was as if the Major had overheard Crawley's admonishment to him. _"__Some things, only you can do to help yourself. And you must quit drinking."_

Lt. Allen spoke again. "Do you understand us, Serjeant?"

Bates found his voice. "Yes."

"Do you agree with our proposed course for you?"

"I agree, sir. I want to stop drinking and I want the pain…to go away."

"Good," Beckwith intoned. "You will be escorted home to gather whatever belongings you will need for an extended stay at Royal Chelsea Hospital. If you wish to establish bail for your wife, we will assist with this."

"When will I go to hospital?" Bates asked.

"Today, after you have packed whatever supplies you wish to take with you."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

In his more lucid moments, he was amazed that he could vomit so much.

He had been in Royal Chelsea for maybe two days when he first started to feel sick. First, he felt unusually anxious which he supposed was due to his not drinking. Hell, he didn't even have time for a final drink; Lt. Allen made sure of that. He and a couple of serjeants hurried him off to his flat, saw him pack a bag, and hustled him off to hospital.

On the second day, he awoke feeling nauseous and achey. At first he suspected it was the food, but the orderlies told him no, he was beginning to experience the DTs brought on by not having any alcohol enter his system. He started to shake and sweat heavily.

They let him have a few fags but they didn't really help. They gave him something to focus on, to try to steady himself, but in the end he could barely hold on to one anyway.

The next night he began a marathon vomit session. _Where did all this come from?_ he wondered as he hung his head over his new mate Bucket, as the orderlies jokingly called it. He couldn't stop shaking. And his head hurt, oh did it hurt. The light that came in from the window seared his brain and made him even dizzier.

At times he couldn't figure out where he was and imagined things that couldn't be: his dead father and brother watching him from the doorway, ants trying to crawl into a fresh wound in his leg, and the worst of all, he was back in Africa, clutching his leg and screaming for help before he passed out. "I don't want to be here!" he screamed.

Finally, it subsided. There really wasn't much left in his system. He heaved now and then but all that came out was a little water. Even so, he kept Bucket nearby at all times.

The orderlies were kind. They helped him with a bath and afterward, dressed him in a long, loose nightshirt and gave him a loose dressing gown for when he got the chills after a particularly bad sweat.

By the fifth day, it was pretty much over. He was able to sip weak tea, take a few spoonfuls of broth, chew on a piece of bread. His headache eased and the trembling stopped. Even the light from the window wasn't too bad. The nausea was gone, too.

They told him it was time to leave Bucket and go to another section of the hospital where he would learn to live without drink.

* * *

Lt. Allen visited. He looked him over and seemed satisfied. Luckily, he'd had a shave so he didn't look as bad as he felt.

Allen filled him in on what had happened in the outside world over the past week. They bailed Vera out of gaol the day he entered hospital. That was a mistake. She was due at a hearing the day before but never appeared. She had, apparently, disappeared.

He didn't care. He knew he should but he was too tired to care.

"What about Reed?" he asked.

"Still in gaol."

"Are you going to try to find her?"

Allen almost shrugged. "Probably not. The silver wasn't worth all that much, really, and we did recover it. It's a question of priorities, if we feel that Mrs. Bates is a habitual thief who must be pursued."

"Is she?"

"You would know better than I."

Bates said nothing. If she'd been stealing all along, he certainly hadn't enjoyed any benefit from it. He'd been content to drink, read his books, and shut her out.

"It's Reed we're more interested in. He's something of a Fagin, only he enlists middle-aged women for his schemes. They don't attract as much attention, I guess, as the ragamuffin on the street."

* * *

He attended classes where nurses talked about drink and why it hurt them so. He was relieved that they weren't scolds; they only seemed to care about health and adhering to what society expects. He could deal with that.

The nurses talked about how to cope with friends and family who drank, including those who drank "too much." They warned that even a sip of alcohol could set them back. It could make them sick, or it could send them back into the gutter. He was sure this was an exaggeration but then, he was determined to never test it.

They talked about hygiene. Some of it was similar to the talks he sat through whilst in the army. It seemed that many of his fellow patients had been promiscuous to a degree that shocked him and he had hardly been a saint. He wondered if he should join a religious order to avoid _any_ temptation.

He wrote to Lord Crawley and told him everything. About how he drank as soon as he'd returned from Downton, about how Vera claimed he'd pushed her, and about her arrest and his entering the inebriate hospital.

He left nothing out. He even wrote about the book he'd bought for Anna and threw away.

Crawley wrote back. He was glad that Bates had entered hospital. He had already sent him information about other hospitals; that letter must be at his flat. He asked Bates to let him know when he would leave hospital and if he could visit him.

And he agreed with Vera. It would have been odd for him to send a gift to a woman, really a _girl_, he'd met just once.

* * *

Three weeks later, he was discharged. He took a cab back to his flat. It was largely cleared out. The landlady told him that Vera had left abruptly but paid two months' rent before leaving. They both expressed surprise at this. She was sorry that Mrs. Bates and he hadn't been getting on but maybe this would give him a fresh start? He'd always looked so unhappy.

He decided it was time for a new place to live and requested permission to move back into the barracks.

* * *

"Excuse me, Serjeant, there's a lady here to see you." Bates looked up from his filing. A private he recognized from guard duty stood over him. "She's waiting outside mess. Says she's a cousin." The private forced down a smirk; Bates' lady cousins used to come round quite often before he'd sobered up.

He couldn't believe it would be Vera. Surely she knew she was in trouble for running off, missing a hearing.

It wasn't Vera but her friend Audrey Bartlett. He hardly recognized her. She was scrubbed clean, neatly dressed, and looked nervous.

"Mrs. Bartlett," he said, trying not to look too surprised.

"Mr. Bates," she replied. "You look better than when I saw you last. Looks like you sobered up, did you?"

A few moments went by.

"I'm on duty right now," he said. "I can't be away long."

She held out an envelope to him. "This is from Vera. She asked me to give this to you."

He took it from her. "When did you see her?"

"I didn't. She put this in the post to me with a note to get this to you. I went to your old flat but your landlady said you'd moved to the barracks."

"Have you seen Vera at all this past month?"

"Not since the day you came to my door. You were right. She wasn't hurt at all. She was fine, all chatty and talking about how she was about to get her hands on some serious money."

"Do you know where she is?"

"No."

He sighed. "Thank you for bringing this to me. I really should go now, get back to work."

She nodded. "Good-bye, Mr. Bates. Good luck to you."

She thought to herself, _and I hope Vera stays away from us both_.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Bates stuffed the envelope Audrey Bartlett had given him into the bottom drawer of his desk, where he kept his stash of peppermints and a few journals. He grabbed a journal and a fountain pen, and began to write.

Since leaving Royal Chelsea, he'd started writing whenever he realised he was feeling anxious. Writing had become his substitute for drinking; instead of sneaking out for a quick sip from a flask, he'd just pull out a journal and jot down whatever was bothering him. At night, in the privacy of the room off the barracks the officers had assigned to him, he read what he'd written during the day, and tried to analyze the way he'd felt when he'd put down whatever had been disturbing him.

_Audrey Bartlett was here today and gave me an envelope from Vera. Seeing her made me very nervous. The last time I saw her I was drunk. She accused me of beating Vera but Vera was pretending to be hurt. AB gave me an envelope she says Vera sent to her and asked to get to me. I don't want to open it. I don't want to know what Vera has done or where she is. I don't want the police coming after me. I don't want to go to jail like her friend Reed. I think I should open it with a witness present so that no one can say I was in on whatever it is Vera got mixed up in._

He willed himself to not think about the envelope for the rest of the day.

* * *

His duty for the day over, he thought about leaving the envelope in the desk. No, that was too risky. Then he thought about burning it to destroy any evidence of Vera's contact with him. No, Audrey Bartlett knew about it. The police had probably spoken to her as well and for all he knew, she had already informed them about Vera's attempt to contact him.

He thought about going to the Judge Advocate and talking to Lt. Allen but decided against it. He didn't know how far he could trust them. True, they had helped him when he was at his lowest, but who knew, maybe it was all done to avoid bad publicity. It really was outrageous how poorly the Africa veterans had been treated. Already, a few stories had popped up in the alternate press and it was only time before it hit the major papers. He couldn't afford to do anything that hinted at ingratitude.

Still, he had Vera's envelope. And as long as Audrey Bartlett knew about it, that fact could not be erased.

_Crawley_, he thought. He should go to Crawley and ask him what to do. He would know whether they should open the envelope, take it straight to the police, contact a good defence counsel, whatever was right. Crawley had pledged his loyalty to him and in fact would be angry to know if Bates _hadn't_ turned to him in his time of need.

Crawley wouldn't judge him for Vera's actions, just as he didn't judge him for drinking and Bates didn't judge his liaisons. If anyone really cared about him other than his mother, it was Crawley.

He pulled out some writing paper and wrote out a note:

_Captain Crawley:_

_I am writing once again to ask for your help and counsel._

_A friend of Vera's came by today to give me an envelope from Vera. Several people saw her and know she asked for me. I daren't open it alone. I don't know if I should give it to the JAdv or burn it or what. I have no idea what it might contain. She hates me, it could have some false evidence against me for some imaginary crime, or it could contain embarrassing information about my past and my injuries. _

_I am sorry to burden you with my problems but I know you are the person I can most trust and who has my interests at heart. I moved back to Shrapnel Barracks just to avoid this kind of trouble. If you would send word when we could meet I would be most grateful._

_Your humble servant,_

_John Bates_

He thought about posting the note to Crawley's London residence but decided against it. He didn't know if Crawley permitted a secretary to open his post. Rather than take a risk, he added "Eyes Only" to the envelope, just under Crawley's name. He added his name, rank, and the barracks address to the back of the envelope to leave no doubt that this was intended for Viscount Crawley only. Then he prepared to deliver the note in person.

He couldn't show up in his regular uniform, not to a grand place like the Crawley home in Kensington. He pulled out his dress uniform and began brushing it up. He took a cloth to polish the buttons and medals. No time to do a proper polish, but this was good enough for a quick stop. He didn't expect Crawley to even be in residence, but he knew that staff and supplies frequently traveled back and forth between London and Downton. His precious note would be far safer in personal transport than in the Royal Mail.

He hailed a Hansom cab—a rare indulgence, for him—and set out. It cost him a fortune but he wasn't bothered. Not only was the cost worth it for safety's sake, he hardly ever ventured out of barracks these days and had a substantial amount of savings for emergencies just like this.

He asked the cab to let him out a block from the residence. He paid the driver, including a generous tip—he was another workingman, after all—and set off.

For the first time outside barracks, he used a cane given to him by the barracks medic who'd been looking after him upon his return to active duty. He was initially quite reluctant to use it—it signaled everything he hated, his crippled status, his advancing age—but after a few days he had to admit it lessened his pain. Indeed, helped him move faster and keep up with his fellow NCOs and the privates who worked under them. No one had commented on it, either, which was a huge relief. In fact, the blasted cane seemed to afford him a new respectability among the NCOs.

Having reached the Crawley residence, he debated whether he should go to the front door or the servants' entrance. He decided on the front door. He wasn't exactly a messenger, but a comrade of Viscount Crawley's and, after all, he was in dress uniform. He strode up the walk and rang the bell.

A minute went by and a tall, bushy-browed man wearing formal livery opened it. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of a solider at the door. It was an old habit from the war, when the appearance of soldiers in dress uniform arrived to inform a family that a loved one had been killed in action.

He immediately realised this wasn't the case, and that this man wasn't a common soldier. This was someone with a bit of rank and dressed as immaculately as he. Plus he used a cane and Carson the butler was not about to insult someone who had apparently been injured in the line of duty.

It occurred to him, perhaps this was the Serjeant Bates who'd saved the Viscount's life? Anna had told him about the tall serjeant she'd met in the library, who'd insisted on helping her shelve books. And the footmen shared the details about Lady Edith's inadvertently humorous comments that unfolded during luncheon that day. It was most unfortunate that unexpected business with one of Downton Abbey's household suppliers had forced him away from his usual duties of attending the family that day.

"Good afternoon, sir," the butler said in a deep stentorian voice, bowing his head slightly. He opened the door more widely to allow the soldier inside. The soldier entered, with great dignity Carson thought, took off his hat, and tucked it under his free arm. "Thank you," he said in a deep, soft voice. "I have a message, a note, that I should like to leave for Viscount Crawley. It is of a highly personal nature and I did not want to trust it to public delivery."

"I understand…Serjeant, it is, is it not?" Carson answered, glancing at the chevrons that adorned the man's uniform. It was most impressively pressed and brushed, the buttons gleaming. The serjeant nodded. "Bates," he said. "My name is John Bates."

So it was John Bates!

"As it happens, Serjeant, Viscount Crawley is in residence in London this week. The family arrived just this morning. He is not expecting visitors today and I daresay, he will be pleased to hear you have come by.

"Let me take you to a sitting room while I let the Viscount know you are here."

He led Bates into a lovely sitting room just off the front foyer and motioned him into an armchair. "Should I call for tea, Serjeant?"

"No thank you, sir," Bates answered, his voice so very soft for a professional solider, Carson thought. He appreciated the man's modesty and suspected it took a bit of courage for him to even venture to the front door rather than the servants' entrance, where that lunatic cook would have probably shooed him away. He blinked at the thought. That would have been _most_ disastrous. "Very well, I shall let the Viscount know you are here."

Bates noticed a newspaper from the previous day on a nearby table and picked it up. The illustrations on the front page had been carefully cut out, clippings fluttering to the floor and forcing him to smile in spite of his nervousness. Little Lady Edith must have perused it, hopefully after her papa was finished with it.

* * *

Anna hurried to the front sitting room, hoping to reach it before anyone callers came to the house. The girls' nanny mentioned that they had used the room earlier that morning to read the paper. Lady Mary was learning about different European currency and studying India, and the paper was such as _excellent_ teaching tool, wasn't it?

_Sure is_, Anna thought, _until Edith gets her hands on it_. She hoped it wasn't too messy. Thank goodness baby Sybil wasn't with them in the mornings; her shredding abilities were becoming quite prodigious.

She stepped into the room and realised she was too late. A man sitting in one of the armchairs was holding up the shredded paper. Was he…smiling?

"I am so very sorry, sir," she began, "I just learned that Lady Mary and Lady Edith finished their…current events lesson today and I-"

She stopped short. The man lowered the paper and looked at her. His smile spread across his face. "Good morning, Miss Anna," he said and rose from his chair.

It was…Serjeant Bates! And much to her pleasure and relief. Any other London guest would have, at the very least, been quietly irritated by the state of the room. Instead, she found her acquaintance from last year almost laughing out loud as he peered through the newspaper

"Serjeant Bates!" she returned his smile. "How very good to see you in London." _And you look very sharp in uniform_, she thought to herself. Unlike the nondescript suit he wore last year, his dress uniform was most impressive.

"It is a nice surprise to see you, too, miss," he said, hoping the smile on his face was pleasant and not the big dim-witted grin he felt inside. When was the last time a woman, a _sober_ woman, smiled at him like that? Not to mention, someone so young and…pretty.

"I always seem to find you in the messiest room in the house," she remarked, looking around the room to get an idea of the general state of it. It wasn't too bad. "I mean, not that _you_ make it messy. You seem to find just where the girls have been making a mess. I mean, we keep putting you in places where the, the girls have been playing, or learning, or whatever it is their governess is trying to do…" She stopped and finally looked up at him. She was babbling like an idiot.

"No matter, it was yesterday's paper anyway."

Behind her, someone cleared his throat.

Of course Mr Carson would happen on her gabbing away with a guest and looking like she was flirting, an offence that she knew could get her sacked.

"Anna," he intoned.

"Yes, Mr Carson?"

"I see you have made your re-acquaintance with Serjeant Bates."

She almost sighed her relief out loud. She was off the hook.

"I met Anna last year when I visited Downton," Serjeant Bates explained to Mr Carson.

"Hmm." Carson socked away Bates' mention of that detail to muse over later. He turned to Bates.

"The Viscount is waiting for you in his study, Serjeant. Please follow me."

"Thank you."

He handed Anna the cut-up newspaper and grabbed his cane. "We will never know what the new Indian currency look like," he said softly, still smiling, before he followed Carson out of the room.

She stood there, grinning after him.

_Serjeant Bates!_ She thought she'd never see _him_ again.


End file.
